


Eye

by DictionaryWrites



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angry Sex, Bitterness, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Oral Sex, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Jon gets a piercing.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 144





	Eye

It was not a compulsion.

It was not, so far as Jon was aware, a specific push by the Eye. He had considered that possibility, given the descriptions he had read of Gerard Keay, given the shade of the man he had witnessed for himself, that the Eye perhaps wanted for him to get tattooed in the same way Gerard had.

Jon had looked at himself in the mirror, expression impassive, hair still damp from his bath (a rare luxury, given how much it made his leg ache to climb in and out of the thing, but one he indulged when he could), and imagined what he would look like with a great eye inked into his chest, with eyes upon his joints, staring outward. It wouldn’t suit him, he didn’t think, and if the Eye disagreed, it didn’t voice the thought, didn’t tug at him.

If this was about emulating Gerard Keay…

No, he didn’t think so.

It wasn’t a tattoo he felt drawn to, in any case.

He was _curious_.

With the speed at which he healed, with the specific way he felt pain these days, he was curious. He’d been something of a masochist, even before becoming the Archivist, and now, _now_…

“You had any piercings before?” His name was Rene. He was in his thirties, dark-skinned and handsome, his eyes a shining, glimmering hazel reminiscent of molten gold, and the shine of his eyes was only emphasised by the glittering gems pierced through his eyebrows, the side of his nose, his lip. A cascade of skindivers shone over one side of his cheek, and the effect was _breathtaking_.

Subtly ethereal, unexpected, but…

No.

That wasn’t what he was here for.

“No,” Jon said.

Rene smiled, showed his teeth, and Jon looked up at him for a moment before he smiled back.

“Guy like you, cardigans, flannel shirts, this isn’t what I would have expected. It’ll suit you.”

“I’m hoping it will make me more aware of what I—” _Consume_? “Eat.”

Rene laughed.

“That’s as good a reason as any. Tongue out, as far as you can get it.”

\--

It took a few days for Tim to notice.

It wasn’t that he was unobservant. He just tended to avoid Jon, these days, couldn’t stand the sad way Jon moped around, and when Jon _did_ look up at him, it was always with a question Tim didn’t get to choose if he wanted to answer.

“I’ve gone through the Barrett file in its entirety, but the Bennett is still to be completed. There are swathes of paperwork, but so much of it is nonsense, like photocopies of Tesco receipts, I mean, good _lord_, does no one have any appreciation for what will contextually provide—”

Jon’s voice faded into the background of Tim’s consciousness. He was entirely focused on the golden glint inside his mouth, a stark contrast to the olive of his jumper. There was a white pearl at the end of it, and it was painted with an eye, the barbel pierced right through.

Tim’s mouth was, abruptly, very very dry. The barbel shifted as Jon spoke, a tantalising glint, and Tim wondered what it would feel like against his tongue – he wondered what it would feel like—

“When’d you get that done?” Tim demanded when Jon walked his way. “You look a right prick, Jon.”

Jon showed his teeth in something that was more of a sneer than a smile. There was a savagery in it that would be hot, if it wasn’t attached to Jon – maybe it was hot anyway. Tim used to think Jon was hot once upon a time, before all this shit had happened, albeit in a tired, nerdy sort of way. Now…

“It’s not that I can read your thoughts, Tim,” Jon said, scathingly, “but I can get the basic drift.”

Tim’s cheeks were burning. He shoved Jon back against the wall, hand against his throat, and Jon’s head tipped back against the panelled wood of the corridor wall, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t protest, as Tim’s thumb pressed against the base of his throat.

“Why’d you do it?” Tim asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“I wanted to know if it would hurt,” Jon said.

“Did it?”

“Not as much as I wanted it to.”

“You’re fucking pathetic,” Tim said. “You know that?”

“Dunno,” Jon said. “I’m not the one fantasising about my boss putting his tongue on my—”

Tim didn’t mean to. He didn’t know what he was, anymore, what was him and what the Eye and what was freedom any longer – freedom had burned away, and now there was just sex when he could get it, knowing people when he could. He didn’t mean to do it: he kissed Jon messily and hungrily, and Jon actually kissed him back.

The metal was slightly cool, the pearl at the end a strange sensation, hard and smooth and _good_, and when Tim squeezed Jon’s throat, Jon actually let out a low groan that made Tim’s cock twitch in his trousers.

“Didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Jon said, and Tim gripped at his hair with his other hand, felt Jon go slack and wanting in his hands, lean up and into him, mouth open, tongue pierced through with the eye he’d opted into – and wasn’t that the truth?

Tim shoved him onto his knees harder than he would have, once upon a time – but once upon a time, Jon wouldn’t have dropped so easily, and wouldn’t have been as desperate as Tim was. Once upon a time, none of this would have happened at all.

The first thing Tim felt was the shift of the barbel’s ball over the base of his cockhead, and he wondered if the eye could see.


End file.
